Sheepfarmer's Dauther

Chapter Twenty-five

Early the next morning they set out for Sibili, marching along the north bank of the Chaloqueel on a wide stone road. Those three days came back to Paks later as a kind of dream—the rich valley farmlands, with fruit trees in full bloom, clouds of pale pink flowers that strewed their petals on every gust of wind, leaving the hollows of the road drifted with delicate color. On the slopes, grapevines had sprouted tufts of furry greenish-white leaflets. Rows of vegetables, plots of grain like green velvet—but all empty and quiet.

The sun had just set on the third day when they saw Sibili’s walls dark against the glowing western sky. Rain began again that night; the next day they picked up what news they could while settling into camp and readying for the assault. Sapping teams had already started work; Cracolnya’s cohort joined a small group of men in rust-colored tunics who supervised the construction of more siege towers and catapults.

“Who’s that?” asked Keri, of the rust-uniformed men. Paks shrugged.

“I don’t know. I never saw them before.” She stopped Devlin and asked him.

“That’s Plas Group—Marki Plas. They’re a special company—all they do is siege machines. A section of them came down with Aesil M’dierra.”

Despite heavier rain the following day, the assault began, with Andressat and Westland troops in two siege towers. Mercenary archers scoured the wall. The Phelani and Halverics stayed back as reserves; Paks could not see much through the rain, but watched Plas Group specialists operating the two catapults, winding down the arm, loading stones into the cup. She noticed that they adjusted the ropes with each shot, to compensate for dampness. But neither the catapults nor the assault succeeded, and the attackers straggled back that evening in no mood to explain what had gone wrong.

During the night the rain stopped. The Phelani and Halverics struggled to move a third siege tower to the walls under cover of darkness. With the others, Paks cursed angrily as its wheels sank into the mud again and again; by dawn they were still some distance from the walls, in easy range of enemy bowmen. The Duke ordered them back; Paks was glad to leave the unwieldy tower where it had stuck fast. Once out of bowshot, she finally had a chance to see what Sibili looked like. Built on a hump of ground near the river, its inner citadel stood higher than the rest; the walls were well built of buff colored stone. Although the city did not look as formidable as Cortes Andres, Paks though it would be harder to take than Cha. Overall it reminded her of a larger Rotengre, long and narrow, with heavy gates pinched between massive towers.

During that day, both sides used fire weapons. The defenders poured oil on one of the siege towers and lit it, with a cohort of Pliuni on the way up inside. The Pliuni fled, not without casualties. Plas Group lobbed stones smeared with burning pitch over the walls. The defenders fired the second tower; Andressat and Phelani troops rushed to drag it away from the walls and managed to keep the fire from burning the lower framework, but it was too damaged to use until rebuilt.

That night Paks helped drag the remaining siege tower into place while the sappers fired their tunnels. She heard a deep rumble off to her right, and shrill cries from the wall. Had the wall come down?

“Don’t stop!” said Captain Pont. “Move this thing!” Over the pounding blood in her ears, Paks heard horn signals and the clamor of combat. At last the tower reached the wall. A body of men they could not see—supposedly the Halverics—jingled past and started up the tower stairs.

“Get armed and ready,” said Devlin. Paks wiped the sweat from her face and stretched before slipping her arm into her shield grip. They crowded into the base of the tower, blind in that sheltered darkness.

Suddenly a crash from the top of the tower and a cry from the wall signalled the start of their own assault. The troops on the stairs surged upward. Pont held them back until the first group was halfway to the next level, then sent them on. In the blackness, Paks fell up the first two steps; someone else stumbled into her, cursing. She found her balance and went on. As she neared the top, dim light filtered in. She saw torches on the wall, and fires in the city itself. As she crossed the bridge to the wall, she tried not to think of the many feet of empty air below.

“There!” Vossik of Dorrin’s cohort waved an arm to the right; Paks came up behind a line of Halverics slowly pushing enemy pikemen away from the bridge. Where were the rest of them? she wondered. She had no time to think about it; the enemy pressed hard, and the man in front of her fell. She leaped forward over him, taking his place in the Halveric line. She could feel behind her the growing pressure of her own comrades. Slowly, step by step, they forced their way along the wall.

In the dancing torchlight she found it hard to see the enemy’s thrusts; she hoped they had the same problem. Paks ducked under one pike and slashed at a man in their front line. She got a hit, then another, then something—what she didn’t know—hit her helmet and almost knocked her down. The enemy yelled, as she staggered, and Halverics closed around her. Then she was up, and fighting again. Someone yelled in her ear, and she shook her head, trying to understand. What did they mean, “almost there”?

Suddenly a horrible howling stunned her, followed by a blinding blue flash that lit up the entire city. For just an instant, Paks could see the breach in the wall, just behind the enemy she faced. Then came blackness, utter and thick. Screams and bellows filled the air. The lines crashed together; Paks was crushed in a welter of bodies, all struggling. Something raked her sword arm. She could not get free for a swing, but drove the tip of her sword into what she hoped was an enemy. Someone fell into her. She lost her balance and fell sprawling under a pile of men and weapons, the stink of blood and sweat strong in her nostrils.

All at once light returned: not torchlight, but a mellow golden light over the city itself. In an instant the pile of fighters separated into warring factions, struggling to kill and get free. Paks felt a stabbing pain in her leg, as she wrenched her shield free of a wounded man’s shoulder and parried an enemy thrust. She made it to one knee. Someone grabbed her shield arm and pulled. She tried to pivot, but a man on the wall thrust up at her; she had to counter that. The pull steadied her; she got her legs under her again, and whoever had grabbed her let go. She was in a ragged line with several Halverics and some from her own cohort. Most of the enemy were down, some crawling away. They waded into the rest, and cleared the wall as far as the breach before the golden light faded. Paks looked for the source, but could not see it.

“Are you all right?” It was a Halveric private beside her.

Paks nodded; pain shot through her head. “Yes—just winded, I think.”

“Your arm’s bleeding a lot. Sorry I grabbed you like that—”

“Was that you? It helped. I thought you were one of them, at first.”

“I know. You seemed dazed, and those scum were moving—”

“Paks.” Devlin had come along the wall. “What besides this arm?”

Paks shifted her weight as Devlin took her arm, and the pain in her leg reminded her. “Left leg—something, I haven’t looked. And something hit my head hard; it feels like the helmet’s too tight.”

“You’d better go back—”

“No, I’m fine, Now that I’ve got my breath—”

“Go back. This isn’t over yet. Get that arm tied up, at least. We’ll need you later.” He shoved her toward the rear.

As Paks edged her way past those who had just come up, she felt the day’s fatigue like a smothering sack of wool. One of the surgeons stationed near the bridge from the siege tower waved her down next to a group of wounded. Paks sank down and tried to ease her helmet off. It wouldn’t come; she felt a dint in the front.

“Wait,” said the surgeon. “Just sit there—” he turned to one of the others. “We’ll need more torches here.” The man nodded and moved off, and the surgeon tightened the bandage he was applying. “There. Yes. Now let me see that helmet—yes. Quite a dint. Do you know what hit you?” Paks shook her head. “Did you fall down?”

“Not then.”

“Let me get it off.” He pulled it off and touched her head. Paks winced. “Tender, eh? I’m not surprised, with that lump.” Several men came up with torches. “Good,” he told them. “Hold one here. Now look at it,” he told Paks. She squinted at the bright glare. “Not too bad. Let’s see that arm—anything else?”

“Something stuck my leg.” Paks moved her left leg a little. Someone—not the surgeon—took off her boot. It hurt. She tried to see what it looked like.

“Hold still,” scolded the surgeon. “This arm needs work; I’ll see the leg in a moment.” Paks smelled the pungent cleansing solution and braced herself. It felt cold, then burned. Her head throbbed, and she closed her eyes. She felt the surgeon start probing the wound in her leg. She heard him mutter to someone else, and hands steadied her leg as the pain sharpened. She wanted to argue with him, but it was too late. She thought he must be sewing up the hole, whatever it was, but it felt much worse. She wanted to throw up.

“It’s the head, mostly,” said the surgeon; Paks opened her eyes. Kefer was there, staring at her, and Arcolin stood by the tent flap. Tent?

“I thought we were on the wall,” she said. The surgeon turned to her.

“You were. You’d been hit on the head, and you passed out while I was working on your leg.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t remember anything of that, just being on the wall, and fighting, and strange lights.

“Was there a blue light?” she asked doubtfully. “And a yellow one later?”

“Yes.” Arcolin stepped nearer. He was scowling. “That was clerics—theirs first, then ours.”

“Clerics?” Paks felt even more confused. She had never seen any priest or Marshal make strange lights.

“Never mind that now.” He turned to the surgeon. “How long?”

The surgeon shrugged. “A good night’s sleep, I expect. Maybe a day.” He brought Paks a mug. As her vision blurred with numbwine, she saw the surgeon follow Arcolin and Kefer from the tent.

She woke to broad daylight. The surgeon, busy with others, saw her test the tender lump on her head.

“How is it?”

“Fine.”

“Try moving around.” Paks sat up and winced as her bandaged arm and leg twinged. But these were minor pains; she could move easily. “Go on and stand.” She had no trouble with that, either, and he sent her out. “Get a new helmet—size or so too large, and use extra padding for a day or so. If you get dizzy, or your eyes blur, come back at once. And eat before you go back on duty.”

Outside, their camp was in turmoil. Paks could see more troops—Westland men—marching into Sibili through the breached wall. She wondered why they weren’t using the gates. Smoke rose over the city walls. As she headed for the quartermaster, she saw Dorrin’s cohort returning from the city, faces black with soot and grime.

Her new helmet felt unwieldy, even after she wrapped a cloth around her head. She tried again. Still odd-feeling. When she got to the cooks’ tent, she found Barra and Natzlin.

“We heard you were hurt,” said Barra, dishing up stew.

“Something hit my head.”

“Are you going back in?” Paks wondered if she imagined the edge in that tone.

“Of course. Where’s Arcolin—or Pont?”

“They’re inside. It’s a mess in there, too.”

“What about it?”

“They’ve got some kind of wizard or priest and just when you think you’ve got a group on the run, there’ll be a stinking black cloud all around; you can blunder into anything. Walls, a fire, their fighters—you can’t see your own nose.”

“And look out for the ones that don’t look armed,” added Natzlin. “They dress like rich folk, but they carry throwing knives.” She gestured to a cut on her cheekbone. “They’re good with them, too. You could lose an eye.”

“Who’ve we lost?” asked Paks.

“In Arcolin’s? I heard that Suri fell from the tower last night, and someone—who was it, Natz?—took a crossbow bolt in the eye.”

“Gan, that was—Gannarrion. And Halek—”

“Halek? What happened to him?”

“Sword thrust in the gut, on the wall.”

Paks finished her stew in silence. She had not liked Halek, not at all. But she wished she knew it had not been her sword, there in the darkness. She found her cohort; by the end of that day, the gate tower had fallen, and the attacking troops moved freely through the twisting streets of the lower city. Paks hardly noticed; she marched with the others back to camp, aware only of great weariness.

She woke early, just at daybreak, and was startled to find Volya beside her.

“You were acting strange, yesterday,” said Volya. “We thought someone should keep an eye on you.”

“I was?” Paks had only the haziest memory of the previous day. There’d been fighting on a wall or a gate or something like that. “I’m fine, now.”

“That’s what you told Barra yesterday.” Volya looked stubborn.

“It’s true now, anyway.” Paks combed her hair and rebraided it; the lump still hurt when she ran the comb over it. She was very hungry and wondered if she’d eaten the night before.

Although the outer part of the city had fallen, the inner citadel still resisted. Sapping teams were busy at those walls, now. Plas Group had repaired the damaged siege tower; Paks found herself once more hauling on a rope with others, and cursing the ungainly monster that lurched from stone to stone. Suddenly a shout made her look up. A black cloud rolled over the citadel wall and flowed down toward the sapper’s shelter. A man in glittering mail spurred his horse toward that part of the wall, raising a mailed fist over his head. Light streaked from his fist to form a web between the cloud and the sappers. When the blackness reached it, green flames sprang up and the cloud disappeared.

Vik nudged her in the ribs. “I heard that’s a paladin of Gird.”

Paks stared. “That?” She had never believed she would see one.

“Yes. There’s a High Marshal here too, and two Swordmasters of Tir, and more—I don’t know what—from Pliuni and Westland.”

Paks felt ignorant again; she didn’t know what a High Marshal was. “What have they got inside?”

“I heard it’s a temple to the Master of Torments—some southern god, I suppose. But their priest or whatever they call him has power enough. That’s what that blue flash and darkness was, the night we broke the wall. And these black clouds.”

Paks watched as the mailed figure rode away from the wall. Paladin or not, she had never seen such a warrior. Every bit of metal glittered like polished jewels, and the horse—it moved lightly as wind-blown down, yet gave the impression of strength and power. For an instant she pictured herself in that mail—on that horse—but that was ridiculous. She leaned her weight on the rope.

By the next afternoon, they were fighting their way through the citadel streets, upward and inward toward Siniava’s palace. At last Paks could see an open space behind the defenders. Foot by foot they pushed Siniava’s men back toward a broad paved court or square. Directly across from them, enemy troops poured from a high arched doorway in a tall building ornamented with balconies and turrets. Paks assumed it was Siniava’s palace. To the left she could just see a massive edifice with a pillared porch above the wide flight of steps.

Then their own reserves managed to force themselves to the front, and Paks and the others in front edged back. She leaned on a wall and caught her breath, watching. More reserves passed her. With them were two Swordmasters of Tir, in their black armor, and a High Marshal of Gird in chainmail under a blue mantle. Beside the Marshal strode a man in glittering chainmail under a flaming red surcoat embroidered with the crescent of Gird. The paladin, thought Paks. She had not seen him so close before. Without thinking, she pushed herself away from the wall to follow him.

By this time, the attackers had forced the enemy most of the way across the square, where they battled fiercely before the palace doors. Paks and the clerics had almost reached the rear of that melee when an ill-armed rabble poured out of the pillared porch on their left to take the attackers on the flank. Quickly the unengaged rear ranks swung to meet them; Paks thought the newcomers looked too scared to be really dangerous, having lost surprise. Behind them, she saw a small group of mailed figures poised at the top of the steps. Even as she parried the unskilled blows, and killed the first of those attacking, a strange sound shook the air, and sent a tremor through her. The sunlight dimmed. Someone beside her shrieked and dropped his sword, scrambling backwards. The attackers screamed too, flailing ahead with even less skill.

From behind her a loud voice shouted a word Paks had never heard and could not afterwards remember. A crackling bolt of light shot past her ear toward the group on the porch. She gaped, a cold chill rippling down her spine, and nearly fell when someone slammed into her leg. She looked back at the attackers barely in time to dodge a sword thrust at her neck. Light flickered over her in blues and yellows, but she paid it no mind. The frantic crowd in front of her demanded all her attention.

Then they were gone—dead, wounded, or run away—and she looked around. A knot of struggling fighters still contended in front of the palace. Some of her own cohort stood near, watching her. She realized they were waiting for her to tell them where to go next; she had no idea what to tell them. The Swordmasters, High Marshal, and paladin stood just behind the battle; they seemed intent on the group on the stairs, but Paks could not tell what they were doing. She glanced again at the enemy on the stairs, and stopped, fascinated.

The tallest one wore a blood-red surcoat over dead-black mail. On its head was a horned and spiked helmet; the visor was beaked. It carried an immense curved jagged blade with one hand, and a many-thonged whip in the other. A length of black chain clasped its red cloak, and chain belted the surcoat and scabbard. The others also wore black armor, and tunics of red and black plaid. All their weapons were spiked or jagged. Paks shivered. She wondered if she should offer to guard the clerics. Did they know what they faced?

Suddenly the black-armored figures moved, racing down the steps and screaming strange words. Something stung Paks’s chest; she thought at once of Canna’s medallion. The light dimmed; the enemy fighters brought a cloud of darkness with them. One of the clerics spoke: golden light lay over them all, bright enough for Paks to see the glitter of eyes within the visored helmets. Then the two groups crashed together. Eerie howls, blasts of wind both hot and cold, sizzlings, cracklings, flashing lights—she fought to keep her attention on the fight.

At first both sides ignored her, and they were so closely engaged that she could not find a good opening. Then she saw that the paladin was fending off two: one with both sword and whip, and the other with an axe. The spikes on the whip were catching in the paladin’s mail, little jerks that might catch him off balance. Just as Paks reached the paladin’s side, the whip fouled his shield-arm, and the axeman aimed a sweeping stroke at it. Paks threw herself forward, trying to block it with her sword.

When the blades met, a flare of blinding light sprang up, and her blade shattered. The hilts burned through her glove before she could drop the broken blade. She staggered into the axeman, seeing nothing but spots from the flash. Pain shot up her arm. She couldn’t seem to draw her dagger. She blinked furiously to clear her vision, and felt herself being hoisted by shoulder and hip. She kicked out strongly, and hit something. Then she fell, hard, onto the stone, and had just time to see a black-booted foot swing back before the kick landed.

She woke to the muted light in the surgeons’ tent. She had no idea why she was there until she tried to move her right arm. Her hand and wrist throbbed. When she looked, a bulky bandage swathed her arm to the elbow. She was thirsty. She looked around, and saw only other wounded on pallets. A low murmur of voices came from the next room. The curtain between the rooms billowed and the surgeon came through, a man in Girdish blue behind him.

“Ah—Paks,” said the surgeon softly, coming to her. “You did wake up finally. How do you feel?”

“Thirsty,” she said.

“No wonder.” He poured a mug from the tall jug in the corner, and offered it. Paks reached, but when she lifted her head to drink pain stabbed her head and darkened her vision. The surgeon moved quickly to help her. “Blast it. I hoped you would be over that. Go on, now—drink as much as you can.” She managed five or six swallows. “Is it just your head?”

“Yes—that is, my sword hand hurts some. What happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No. The last I remember is—is pulling a siege tower. And there was a cloud coming over the wall, and someone stopped it.”

“Hmm. You’ve lost some time. You got a knock on your head some days ago, and then another one that left you flat out. And you’ve got a burned hand, though it will heal. You can thank High Marshal Kereth that it’s no worse.”

Paks looked at the Girdsman, now squatting on his heels beside her pallet. She had never been so close to any cleric. He had thick dark hair cropped below his ears, and the short-trimmed beard of one who fought in a visored helmet. Even out of armor and relaxed, he conveyed power and authority.

“They tell me,” he began, “that you are not a follower of St. Gird. Is that so?”

Paks started to nod, but the pain lanced through her head again. “Yes, sir; it’s true.”

“But you wear his holy symbol. It was given to you, I understand, by a Girdsman?”

“Yes, sir. A friend—Canna.”

“Ah. Did she tell you why she gave it to you? Had she been trying to convert you?”

“No, sir. I—I wasn’t there when she died. The Duke told me she had left it to me. He—he said it would be right to keep it.”

The High Marshal pursed his lips. “It’s unusual. Most Girdsmen, if they die in battle or from wounds, want their symbols returned to the barton or grange where they joined. A friend might be asked to take it there, to tell the story of a brave death. Sometimes it’s left to a family member. But to give it to a non-believer, out of the Fellowship of Gird—that’s not common at all.”

“Should I give it to you, then? To give to the—the barton?”

“Now, you mean?” His brows raised; he sounded surprised at the offer. Paks wondered why.

“Yes, sir.”

“No.” His head shake was emphatic, certain. “I don’t think so. A dying friend’s wish deserves respect; if she said you were to keep it, I think you should. But tell me, what do you know about St. Gird and his followers?”

Paks thought a long moment. “Well—Canna and Effa both said that Gird was a fighter. So good a fighter that he turned into a god or something, and now fighters can pray to him for courage and victory. And his clerics—Marshals—can heal wounds. Girdsmen are supposed to be honest and brave and never refuse to fight—but not cruel or unfair.”

“Hmm.” The High Marshal’s mouth twitched in a brief smile. “And this doesn’t appeal to you?”

“Well—sir—” Paks tried to think how to say it politely. “I don’t quite see how a fighter could become a god.”

She thought he might explain, but he said merely, “Anything else?”

“When I was a recruit, Effa tried to convert all of us. She told us about Gird’s power and protection and all. But it seemed to me that if Gird favored fighting, he wouldn’t be protecting much. Then Effa got a broken back in her first battle, and died a week later. Gird didn’t heal her.” Paks paused and looked at the High Marshal, but he said nothing, only nodded for her to go on. “And Canna—nobody could have been braver than Canna; if Gird cared about his followers at all, he should have saved her. She—she said it takes a Marshal to heal wounds, but if Gird is so powerful, I don’t see why he can’t go on and do it, without any fuss.” Paks found she was glaring at the High Marshal, furious. Her head pounded.

The High Marshal’s expression was serious, but held no rancor. “Let me explain what we know about Gird. He was a farmer—the sort of big, powerful farmer you see all over Fintha and Tsaia. Tall, strong, hot-headed—” Paks thought of her father. “The rulers in his day were cruel and unjust; Gird found himself leading a rebellion after they harassed his village. Now these were just ordinary farmers—they had no weapons. They made clubs of firewood, and took scythes and plowhandles, and trained in the walled bartons of the village. And with these weapons, and these rough farmers, Gird managed to defeat the rulers with their fine army and its swords and spears.” Paks thought that almost as unlikely as Effa’s version—farmers winning against real soldiers?—but she kept her mouth shut. The High Marshal continued. “That’s why we call our meeting places bartons, and the larger ones granges—that’s where Gird’s followers met and trained, in farmyard and barn.”

Paks nodded, when the Marshal seemed to be waiting for her reaction, and he went on. “His friends wanted him to be their king, but Gird refused. Instead, he used his military command to change the army into something new—the protector of the helpless and innocent, rather than the tool of the rich. He insisted that his followers be honest, fair, and that they care for the poor. We have records, in our archives, of the peaceful years when Gird was chief among guardians.” Again the Marshal glanced at her before going on.

“Then came a new threat. Powers of evil, exactly what we don’t know. Many feared them too much to resist, and fled far away. But Gird went out to face them with his old cudgel. No one saw that battle, but the dark powers fled the land for many years, and Gird was not seen on earth again. Gird’s best friend, who had been away on a journey, had a dream in which he saw Gird ascending to the Court of the High Lord—saw him honored there, and given a cudgel of light to wield. It was after that, when he told his dream, that the priests of the High Lord recognized Gird as a saint. We don’t claim Gird is a god. We say he is a favored servant of the High Lord; he has been given powers to aid his followers and the cause of right.”

Paks nodded slowly. Except for the bit about farmers winning battles against trained troops, this made more sense than Effa’s explanation. And it had been long ago—maybe the rulers had had no real army, or Gird had had the gods’ help. That much she could believe. “He sounds like a good man—and a good fighter.”

“So are you, from what I saw yesterday,” said the High Marshal. “Your friend who gave you her symbol must have thought well of you. If you ever do become a Girdsman, you’d be a good one.”

Paks could not think what to say to this. She wished she could remember just what she’d done the day before, and she had no desire to become a follower of Gird.

“You don’t remember yesterday at all?” he asked, with a quick sideways glance.

“No, sir.”

He sighed. “I wish you did. I’d like to know why it didn’t kill you.”

“What?”

“You crossed blades with a priest of Liart, child. That should have been the death of you. It shattered your blade, burned your hand—Fenith could scarcely believe it when he saw you kick at the priest after that. It was bravely done, but foolish, to take on such a foe—and amazing that you survived it.”

As he spoke, Paks saw a shadowy version of these things in her mind—not yet a memory, but the stirrings of what might become one. “Was there—someone in a red and black tunic, and a helmet with spikes—?”

“Yes. Are you remembering?”

“Not exactly. It’s not clear at all. Why should their blades burn my hand?”

“Because his weapon was no ordinary axe.”

“You mean magical?” She thought of Dorrin’s sword.

“If you call a curse magic.” The High Marshal frowned. “Do you know whose priests those were?”

“No… I’d never seen anything like them.”

“I should hope not. The Master of Torments, or Liart, is an evil deity not worshipped openly in lands where the Fellowship of Gird has any influence. His priests carry weapons of great power. Evil power. No ordinary weapon can turn their strokes; unless a warrior has uncommon aid or protection he dies. Liart desires the fear of those he controls. He delights in causing strife, in murders and massacres, in bloodlust and torture. His weapons cause pain as well as death, and slavery thrives in his dominion.” He smiled at her for a moment. “So you see why I am so interested in your symbol of Gird. I would not expect such a symbol alone to protect an ordinary wearer—even a Girdsman—from certain death. But I cannot think what else saved you—and something surely did. Are you under another deity’s protection?”

“No, sir. Not that I know of. I—we—where I grew up, we followed the High Lord—the old gods. I’d never heard of Gird until I joined the Company.”

“I see. Was that in the north?”

“Yes, sir. Far north—a village called Three Firs.”

“Which kingdom is it in?”

“I don’t know, exactly—it’s some way north and west of the Duke’s stronghold.”

“Fintha, or the borders of it. If you never heard of Gird, you heard heroes’ tales enough, I’ll warrant.”

“Yes, sir. Many of them: Torre’s Ride, and the Song of Seliast, and the Deed of Cullen Long-arm.”

“Ah, yes. Was it those songs made you decide to be a warrior?”

Paks blushed and looked away. “Well—in a way—when I was very small. I—I did dream about it, the magic swords and winged horses, and all. But then my cousin became a soldier. When he came back he had tales to tell, and he told me the best way would be to join the mercenaries, the good ones. He told me what to look for—not to join any wild band, but an honorable company. The others, he said, were full of thieves and bullies, and cared only for gold.”

“And that mattered to you? That your companions should be honest and fair?”

“Of course.” Paks stared at him in surprise.

“And have you found them so, in this company?” He was looking down at his hands, not at her.

“Yes, sir. It wasn’t exactly what I expected, but—surely no one could ask better companions. And it is an honorable company; the Duke keeps it so.”

“How was it not what you expected?”

“Oh—” Paks grinned sheepishly. “I hadn’t known about the camp work—cooking, cleaning, digging, all that. Jornoth left that out. Then I had thought I’d be fighting robbers and evil things—even orcs, maybe—as in the tales. But most of our fighting is against other mercenaries or militia—whoever we’re hired to fight. This year’s different, of course.”

The Marshal nodded. “And would you feel better if you were fighting for such a purpose all the time?”

Paks thought about it. “I don’t know. I like to fight—the Duke is very good, and fair. I’m glad to serve him. It’s hard to imagine anything else. And this year, we’re fighting a great evil. I like that. Siniava killed my friends last year, and tortured, too.”

“Yes, this campaign is clearly one of good against evil, and that suits you. But ordinarily—?”

She frowned, choosing her words. “Sir, I—I serve our Duke. That was my oath, when I joined. He is worthy of my service; he has never asked any dishonorable thing. I have no right to question—judge—the contracts he takes.”

The High Marshal looked at her thoughtfully. “I see. Yes, your Duke is a good man; I won’t argue that. And you are loyal, which is good. But something is moving you, which I do not understand, and I think you hardly realize. You may be called to leave your Duke, at least for a time. If so, I hope you will understand the need. Now I can see that you are tiring, and need your rest. Would you like anything to eat, or just more water?”

Paks was puzzling her way through what the High Marshal said; his final question caught her by surprise. “No sir,” she said. “Just—just water, if it’s near.”

He chuckled. “Your surgeon left a bottle here. Can you manage?” He passed it, and this time nothing happened when she lifted her head to drink. The water was cold; she shivered as she drank. The Marshal rose and brought another blanket from the pile. “Rest now,” he said. “I would like to speak to you again, if you don’t mind—” She shook her head. “Good. May Gird’s care be with you.” He moved away; Paks stared, still confused.